


The Storyteller

by Thistlerose



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Future Fic, Gen, Ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in 2002.  Treize's role in history did not end with his death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Storyteller

**Author's Note:**

> This is an odd little story, very loosely connected to the GW universe. I began writing it shortly after 9/11/01, and didn't finish it until nearly a year later. For all that, it's a short piece. I still like the idea of it, though I haven't glanced over it in a long time.

From her perch atop the weathered applewood fence the girl saw the old man coming while he was still a long way off. She was a very young girl and in her short life had not seen many foreigners (few among her people had). But she knew her own people well enough, and knew straight away that this man was not one of them. He was moving slowly, so she did not run back immediately to tell the others, but watched until he had passed the mill and began the steep climb up the hill that led to the village.

     By the time the old man had reached the crest of the hill and the fence, the sun was sinking gently below the horizon and the sky seemed full of rose- and marmalade-colored dragons, and a throng of people had gathered. They shifted uncertainly in the deepening dusk and muttered to one another with voices that seemed to scurry through the breezy air. 

     The girl pushed her mother forward through the crowd. She was a teacher, had studied the history of the village as far back as its founding who knew how many years ago, and had a passing interest in the world beyond. 

     A lantern flared, illuminating the man's features. He was not as old as the girl had first thought; his shoulders seemed hunched more from weariness than from age, and his skin was relatively smooth and unwrinkled, his hair a rich honey-brown. His clothes, though of odd design, were well-tailored but dusty from the road. His eyes were dark blue; looking into them, the young girl felt as though she were staring up at the night sky. They were that full of ancient things, both light and dark. The brows over them were thin and forked at the ends. 

     “Welcome to our village,” the girl's mother said, touching her right hand to her chest and bowing her head in the customary gesture of greeting. 

     The stranger's eyes widened slightly, as though he were surprised by the gesture or the language. He was silent for a moment, and the girl wondered, “Does he even know what we're saying?” But then he said slowly, in the villagers' own language, though his voice was accented heavily, “Thank you. I've come a long way. It is nice to be welcomed.” 

     Bajj, the innkeeper, pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He ran a big hand through his thinning, greying hair, said with some uncertainty, “If you're looking for a place to stay I have room available. Good wine, too, to ward against the night‘s chill.” 

     “I have no money,” the stranger said. 

     The people turned to one another again and raised their eyebrows in confusion. What was ‘money'? 

     The girl studied the stranger keenly. She did not understand the word any better than her people did, but she sensed somehow that for whatever reason, this man would not be staying long. She was disappointed, without really knowing why. When his gaze met hers and held it, she thought that maybe it was because he made her realize the smallness of her existence and that of her people. Her awareness of the universe did not extend beyond the fields over which her village looked. But he had obviously come from far away. His skin, so much lighter than her own, and his blue eyes gave her a glimpse of a people she was likely never to meet and that knowledge saddened her. 

     As though he had sensed her disappointment the stranger said, “Will you let me sing for my supper? I have an interesting story I could tell you.” 

     Again, the flutter of voices. The stranger smiled at the girl, who flushed. She wished that she could take the night in her hands like a cloak and hide herself in its folds. Then the stranger would not look at her so, but she would still be able to see him, to study his foreign features, to listen to his strange, but pleasant voice. 

     Presently Bajj turned and said, “I don't understand, but then I don't know much. I'll not turn anyone away from my inn at night, so long as there's room, and you look like you've come a long way. There's hot wine, cheese, and bread baked fresh this morning. Come on.” 

     “Thank you.” The stranger turned his gaze on the innkeeper, and the girl breathed a sigh of relief. Almost at once, though, she wished that the stranger would look at her again. She felt bereft at the loss of his attention, as though something inside her had been extinguished. 

     She grasped her mother's hand when the crowd began to move back toward the village, the stranger in their midst. She peered about, fascinated and horrified by the way the darkness transformed her village. She had never been out this late, before. She wondered that there had been no talk of sending her to bed. Part of her wished that she were in bed, with the blankets drawn up over her head and this strange encounter a dream. Another part of her was glad to be out this late in the crisp night air, in the unknown. Lantern light bobbed along the gnarled and twisted branches of trees, disappeared into deep wrinkles in the bark and the spaces between the roots. A milky white snake slithered by in the grass. Small insects chittered. The girl gripped her mother's hand and hurried along with the other villagers. 

     Bajj's inn was small, but comfortable, warm and well lit. The stranger was given a seat by the fire, a pitcher of hot, spiced wine, and a few slices of buttered bread. He stared at the wine and the bread, as though he had seen neither for a very long time, and the people crowded around him, curious. The girl clung to her mother's hand to avoid being crushed and lost, and craned her neck to see. 

     The stranger touched the bread with his fingertips, marveling at its softness, but he did not eat. He picked up the wine glass and studied its contents. He sniffed and a smile stole over his features slowly, but he did not drink. Without looking up and without preamble he said, “Has anyone here ever heard of a Gundam?” 

     Over the girl's head the people turned to one another in puzzlement. They repeated the strange word and shook their heads. No, they had never heard of a “Gundam.” 

     The stranger lifted his gaze from the wineglass and stared at the crackling fire. “You are an innocent people, kind-hearted and generous. I wish that I could spare you this knowledge, but there is a story I must tell to you.” 

     The flames in the fireplace sputtered, as though from a draft. But the door and windows were closed. Shadows leaped across the walls and ceiling. To the girl they resembled patches of night, seen through the branches of a tree. But they held no stars. 

     The stranger turned abruptly and though his gaze roved from face to wide-eyed face, the girl was breathlessly certain that when he began to speak he was addressing her: 

     “Perhaps there was a time,” he said softly, “when mankind only dreamed of traveling through space...” 

* * * *

     “...and from that day forth, mobile suits known as Gundams were never seen again.” 

     There was silence after the last words faded; it took the people several moments to realize that the story was over. When they did they moved and stretched cautiously. Bajj the innkeeper was the first to break the silence. 

     “That's an interesting story, now, and well worth the bread and wine...which I see you have not touched. I'll just be seeing if your room is in order, if you're wanting a place for the night...” And without waiting for a reply he scurried like a beetle up the stairs to the second story of the inn, as quickly as his short legs could carry him. 

     The other people took their cue from Bajj and began to drift away as well. Some had come to the inn in the hopes of a glass of mulled wine or cider, or a pint of that amber-colored beer for which that land is famous, but they left empty-handed. 

     Only the young girl lingered. She broke free of her mother's grasp, pushed through the departing crowd, and ran to the stranger, feeling emboldened and frightened and on the brink of something she had never before imagined possible. 

     “Please,” she said, when he looked down at her, “the people in your story--what happened to them?” 

     “They died,” he informed her calmly. “Some from old age, others from things that are less pleasant. It all took place over a thousand years ago and in all this time no one has seen a Gundam. It may be people have finally outgrown their need for such things. Don't worry; go home and go to sleep. It is very late.” 

     She persisted: “But the man who led those--I forget the word. The one with the long name, the one whose suit--ex-exploded in the last battle...” She began to speak more quickly; she heard her mother calling her name. “You never said what happened to him. Did he die or did he escape like the other one?” 

     The stranger looked thoughtful. “Treize Khushrenada? He died when he should have. Or perhaps...” He trailed off and pain flashed across his features. “Perhaps,” he went on in a voice that sounded more like an echo, “perhaps he was cursed never to rest, but to walk the universe alone until the end of time, telling his story wherever he went so that all would know and none would ever be foolish enough to recreate what happened all those years ago, and the waltz could finally end.” The look of pain disappeared from his face. “Perhaps that's what happened, perhaps not. Now go to bed. It is long past your bedtime. Here is your mother.” 

     The girl allowed herself to be led away, but when she and her mother reached the inn's door, she looked back over her shoulder. The stranger was bent over his bread and wine, but already he seemed blurred around the edges, as though he were becoming part of a dream, from which she would soon wake. 

     And then she was out in the cold night air, walking quickly over dry earth and grass toward her own home. The cobbled streets were silent, not because they were empty, but because those who were also returning home from the inn spoke barely a word. 

     “Hurry up,” her mother muttered, with uncharacteristic crossness. “You should have been in bed hours ago.” 

     “Don't squeeze my hand so hard. Ow.” 

     Their house, when they reached it, looked strangely unfamiliar, as though many years had passed and wrought many changes since they left it only hours ago. While her mother fumbled in her pocket for the key the girl looked at the sky. The stars seemed no less bright than she remembered, but they appeared tired, weary with the things they had witnessed for age upon age. But they offered light, and would continue to do so for ages to come. 

9/01/02


End file.
